


the fairest flowers o’ th’ season

by juliet



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Blow Jobs, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Flowers, Hand Jobs, Historical, Historical Shenanigans, Language of Flowers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-07
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:28:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22161820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/juliet/pseuds/juliet
Summary: “They’re trying to invent a new alphabet,” Aziraphale said happily. “For writing the local language. Oh, it’s so terribly exciting, I can’t tell you.”When Crowley and Aziraphale find themselves in the same castle in the 9th century, spending the summer sitting around together drinking wine is pretty much inevitable.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 41
Kudos: 315
Collections: Good Omens Holiday Exchange 2019, Hot Omens





	the fairest flowers o’ th’ season

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mussimm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mussimm/gifts).



_Devín Castle, Moravia, 863AD_

Crowley was pottering around in the tiny castle garden, his notional job for the time being. It was a pleasant spring afternoon, and all the plants, especially those just beginning to bloom, needed a little bracing-up. A reminder of what was expected of them, that kind of thing. Also there was a certain amount of manure to be shovelled, to keep up appearances. Not that he, personally, did any actual shovelling. There was a lad who brought the stuff up from the stables just inside the main walls, then Crowley stood around and waited until no one was looking before miracling the stuff to where it was needed.

So mostly what he was doing, when he heard the voices, was leaning against one of the thick stone castle walls, idly watching the river below, and basking in the sunshine. 

“We feel that it will bring the people much closer to the Divine if they can be taught His Word in their own language,” a deep baritone said from somewhere behind him. “Which of course means we must create a way to write it down.” 

“Well, I do think it’s a _very_ interesting project, and I’d be delighted to hear more about it…” 

Hang on. Crowley knew that second voice. Wasn’t that…

He leant out to peer around the gnarled apple tree that was blocking his view, and sure enough, there was Aziraphale. He’d recognise those blond curls anywhere. He was wearing what looked like monastic robes, and wandering through the garden with another similarly-clad bloke. Crowley was debating whether or not to duck out of sight – realistically, if Aziraphale was kicking around the castle for any length of time, it would be a bit of a challenge to avoid him, and in any case Crowley didn’t really want to avoid him, but it might be better to be _prepared_ – when Aziraphale stopped, turned around, and saw him. 

Crowley, caught, grinned at him and gave him a little wave, then removed himself back behind the tree before Aziraphale’s monk friend could turn around. Conveniently, this also gave him a chance to catch his breath and tidy himself up a bit. He absolutely hadn’t been expecting Aziraphale here, and...well. He hadn’t seen the angel in a while. It would be good to catch up. 

Aziraphale found him, in one of the prettier arbours, about fifteen minutes later. 

“Crowley! What a lovely surprise. What are you doing here?” He sat down next to Crowley on the bench.

“Oh, I was hanging out with Rastislav a few years back. Thought I’d come see how he was getting on these days.”

“A few years back...Oh.” Aziraphale gave him a disapproving look. “Were you involved with the rebellion, then?” 

Crowley shrugged. “Well, you know me, I like a bit of rebellion. Foment a little discord, that sort of thing. Don’t you approve of self-determination, angel?” 

Rastislav hadn’t needed all that much encouraging, as Crowley recalled; he’d already been chafing a bit under the East Frankian yoke (or as Crowley preferred to put it, had an inflated sense of his own self-importance). Crowley had only needed to introduce him to Ratpot, also chafing a bit after being kicked out of his own sinecure, and stand well back. 

Aziraphale had the expression of someone who theoretically disapproved of this project but couldn’t really bring himself to care all that much about it. “I think perhaps we only endorse people determining that they should, uh, behave according to expectations…”

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Yeah, sounds about right. Anyway. What’re you up to?”

“Oh, I’ve come with these two delightful missionaries. Constantine and Methodius.”

Crowley had a vague recollection of Rastislav saying something about some monks. He hadn’t been paying attention; at the time, he’d been cracking into some very nice wine imported from somewhere in the Levant. There were definite perks to hanging out with the nobility. Although the local beer was pleasant enough too, when he went down to the stables or the guardhouse to cheat at dice with the castle staff. Crowley counted it an evening lost if no one had punched anyone else by the time he said his farewells.

“They’re trying to invent a new alphabet,” Aziraphale said happily. “For writing the local language. Oh, it’s so terribly exciting, I can’t tell you.”

He sat there visibly exuding delight with the world, and Crowley felt his customary surge of almost unbearable fondness. It was hardly surprising, was it? Having at least a little in the way of pleasant feelings for the only other person who had spent this much time down on Earth, the only other person who could understand the experience of living through all these millennia, the person you had very pleasant dinners with every few decades...Not surprising at all. Nothing to worry about, from a demonic perspective, and in any case, if Aziraphale was chatting to Crowley then he couldn’t be doing anything _angelic_ , and therefore, looked at from that angle, Crowley was doing his job. Probably.

“Sounds thrilling, for those that read,” Crowley said, with an offhand shrug. “Can’t really see the point, myself, in all this writing things down, but there you go.”

“It’s progress, Crowley. Aren’t you supposed to be in favour of that?”

“If I’m supposed to be in favour of it, I imagine you’re not.”

“Oh, but they’re intending to use it for doing outreach to the locals about, you know. Her. And all that.” Aziraphale, as he always did when speaking of Heaven or the Almighty, looked ever so slightly uncomfortable. “Anyway. Isn’t this a lovely garden?”

Crowley felt a not unpleasant squirming sensation somewhere in his insides. “Yeah. Suppose. Nice weather for sitting in it, that’s for certain. Lovely bit of sloth, yeah?”

“Oh dear, you’re right,” Aziraphale said, getting up regretfully. Crowley blessed himself internally for having mentioned ‘sloth’ out loud rather than just letting it happen. “I suppose I’d better be off. I’m sure I’ll see you around, if we’re both in the castle.”

He beamed cheerfully at Crowley, and wandered off out of the garden towards the main castle keep. Crowley stared after him, then looked up at the early roses just beginning to bud above and around the arbour. Well. It wasn’t like he’d been planning on leaving the place just yet, anyway, was it? Surely there was some more mischief he could find to do.

* * *

It took Aziraphale longer than it probably should have done to work out that Crowley didn’t just spend a lot of time in the garden, he was in fact in some sense _responsible_ for it. He didn’t realise until, sitting in the arbour chatting to Crowley, he said something about dear Constantine, and whether Crowley had met him at all. Which, granted, perhaps Aziraphale shouldn’t be suggesting that a known demon converse with someone who was supposed to be on the path to sainthood, but Constantine and Methodius were such fascinating people…In any case, he asked, and Crowley had shrugged.

“Firstly, demon. Allergic to religious types. Secondly, the gardener doesn’t really hang out with the monks.” 

Which might be true, except that Crowley most certainly did hang out with Prince Rastislav, but the more interesting point was… “Gardener – oh! Crowley! Do you mean to tell me that you’re responsible for this lovely place?”

Since Aziraphale had arrived, spring had been bursting forth with ever more vigour, and the gardens were looking absolutely beautiful. To think that Crowley was behind this gorgeous place, so full of life…

Crowley shrugged again, his bony shoulders staying up around his ears. “Yeah, well. Last gardener died, apparently. Total mess when I got here. Seemed a shame. You know. Not a big deal.”

“Oh, but Crowley, surely it is a big deal. So many people must appreciate it…”

“Shut up,” Crowley said. “Not doing it for anyone’s _benefit_. You know what happens in gardens, angel? Specially around springtime? _Assignations_.” He sat back, looking satisfied.

“People in love?” Aziraphale said. “Well, that’s still perfectly…”

“Not love, angel. Sex. Hang out here too long, peer around the wrong corner…” Crowley shook his head. “All sorts of things they’re getting up to. Things your lot certainly don’t approve of.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. “Well, I have to say, I’ve never really understood why one would disapprove, if love is involved, in any sense. I mean, I’ve never…” He shut his mouth, suddenly, realising that he was about to say something, out loud, to a demon, that was critical of Upstairs, not to mention a little revealing of some of his own indulgences…

Crowley was staring at him, and Aziraphale couldn’t quite read his expression behind his glasses.

“Well,” he said, hurriedly. “I still think it’s lovely, Crowley, but I suppose you’re right, if it’s an incitement to immorality, then it’s hardly surprising that you’ve done so well with it. Anyway.” He got up, feeling far too _antsy_ in a way he couldn’t quite define to keep sitting there chatting. “I should be on my way.”

He didn’t ought to spend so much time with a demon anyway, did he? Maybe he should make a little more effort to stay away from the garden. Even if he couldn’t quite believe that such a beautiful place could really be demonic in the sense that Crowley was claiming. Crowley knew his own job best, after all, didn’t he. And Aziraphale knew his, and he ought to be getting on with it.

* * *

Spring turned into summer. Crowley and Aziraphale kept meeting in the garden. Crowley told himself that this was accidental and inevitable and other words like that, and that he wasn’t in any way aware of Aziraphale’s customary movements and the fact that he tended to come up to the garden after lunch, and certainly wasn’t ensuring he was ‘accidentally’ around then. 

It was absolutely, entirely, just coincidence. 

But it was...pleasant, to be able to talk to someone without having to constantly be aware of your own cover story. Someone who knew what was really going on. Someone who, whatever he might claim, did share at least to some extent Crowley’s jaundiced view of both Upstairs and Downstairs. 

Also, there was the fact that Crowley had always found the angel easy on the eye. And so fond of things down on Earth, in a way that no one else in Hell or Heaven seemed to be. 

Today, though, Aziraphale seemed a little less cheerful than usual. 

“How’s your alphabet coming along?” Crowley asked. They were sitting on a patch of chamomile lawn in a corner of the garden, surrounded by rose-bushes. Crowley had tucked in a few violets in the semi-shade underneath them, and he thought the effect worked rather well.

“Oh, they’ve finished creating that, really. Looks lovely. They’ve got a great lump of the Bible and all that written out in it, and some of the local monks have been put on to copying it. I’ve done a bit myself, come to that. They’re so clever, these humans.” He sighed.

“You don’t sound like you entirely mean that,” Crowley observed, leaning back on his hands a bit. There was a particularly pleasant pink rose above Aziraphale’s head, and the scent was wafting over to him, mixed with the smell of Aziraphale himself, petrichor and oak-gall ink and vellum. 

“Well.” Aziraphale stopped for a moment. “The thing is...Rastislav asked them to put a, a civil code together. You know. One of these law things.”

“Yeah? I thought you’d be all over that. Law-abiding is supposed to be your thing, right? It’s me should be complaining. Honestly, just a couple of years ago Raz was rebelling against his overlord and now here he is trying to make other people behave themselves.” Crowley shook his head in mock disapproval. 

“Yes.” Aziraphale looked down at his hands, his shoulders slumping. “I mean, I am. But. They seem to spend so much of their time worrying about, you know. What people do with their bodies. With other people. That sort of thing.”

“Yeah, well, what’s wrong with a bit of murder, I always say.”

Aziraphale, instead of finding it funny, just frowned at him. “I don’t mean that, Crowley. Don’t be obtuse. I mean – sex, and things. I thought the locals were really quite sensible, but Methodius is awfully wound up about it and...well. It’s just depressing, is all.”

“Sex outside marriage? Men with men? All that stuff? Well, you’re not wrong that the locals are fairly easy-going.” Crowley had been quite pleased to discover that. “You can’t be surprised that your lot aren’t, though. I seem to remember the Bible having a certain amount to say about sex.” 

“Yes, well.” Aziraphale was staring down at his hands, and Crowley’s initial impulse to needle him about it died down in the face of his visible unhappiness. “I rather wish they wouldn’t, that’s all. Surely there’s more important things to worry about in human behaviour.”

“Yeah, quite. Someone stole one of my roses the other day,” Crowley said darkly, and was rewarded by Aziraphale smiling at him. 

“Dear me, Crowley, as if they’re _your_ roses in the first place.”

“Possessiveness. That’s a sin too, there you go, they can worry about that too.”

“Covetuousness,” Aziraphale said. “Indeed it is. Hard not to covet your beautiful roses, though, Crowley.”

Crowley had to try really hard not to read more into that than the angel could possibly have meant; but at least they were off the topic of religious rules and what humans should and shouldn’t do. And Aziraphale was smiling again. 

* * *

One of the things Aziraphale most liked about monks was the emphasis they put on the written word. And he loved getting to write: the engrossing physical experience of making strokes with the quill, the feel of it dragging across the vellum, the smell of the ink. He wasn’t so good at the part with all the little drawings, but he was, he thought, justly proud of his script. Well, not proud. He wasn’t supposed to be proud, as such. He enjoyed the feeling of writing out Her holy Word beautifully, that was what it was. A form of worship. Yes. 

And this new alphabet was quite enjoyable to write. Perhaps no more so than the Latin he’d more accustomed to the last few centuries, but he liked the idea, and he liked the fact that it was a change. And the very notion of writing down the local language, bringing Her Word closer to the people, that was lovely. 

He heard hurried footsteps coming through the main archway behind him, but didn’t bother to look up from his careful lettering.

“I swear! Yellow eyes.” It was Constantine’s voice. 

Dread swirled in Aziraphale’s stomach. Had Crowley allowed himself to be seen? 

“Brother Aziraphale?” Methodius had come over to his desk.

“Can I help?” Aziraphale asked politely, laying his quill down. 

“Do you know the gardener? The one who looks after the flower garden near the main hall?”

“The gardener?” Aziraphale was shaking his head before he had even thought about it properly, and then had to hope that neither Constantine nor Methodius had ever seen Crowley and he together. He didn’t think they had. “It is a beautiful garden, though. A glory to the Lord.”

“Beautiful, yes, but a glory to the Lord, I fear not,” Constantine said, sounding distressed. His lungs had been giving him trouble; Aziraphale could hear the rattle as he spoke.

“Surely, dear Brother Constantine...” Aziraphale started, but Methodius interrupted him.

“He always wears those strange, what did he call them? Spectacles. And a hood, a deep hood.”

“But that is hardly…”

“But I came across him today without them, and the man’s eyes! Yellow, I tell you. Yellow and slitted. Like a snake. Like a _demon_.”

“Come, come, good brother,” Aziraphale said, trying to cover his worry. Humans could be very unreasonable about these things. Poor Crowley had nearly been burnt more than once. Of course, Crowley _was_ , indeed, a demon, but, well, it seemed unfair to hold it against him, didn’t it? Hastily, Aziraphale abandoned this line of thought, which seemed likely to lead to unwelcome places. “I am sure the poor man just has some kind of condition.”

“He was threatening the roses,” Constantine said unhappily.

“Unreasonable, perhaps, but hardly…”

“And at the base of his sandals, I swear, I saw scales rising from his heels.”

Aziraphale rather liked that little line of scales at the back of Crowley’s feet. They were a very pretty red.

“Oh dear,” he said. 

“We must tell the Prince,” Constantine said.

“We must exorcise him,” Methodius said, although Aziraphale strongly suspected that he didn’t exactly mean ‘exorcise’, because that would be if Crowley were a human, and possessed. Mind you, maybe they’d start that way... but whatever Methodius planned, this was bad news for Crowley, and Aziraphale needed to let him know.

“The prince will be busy with the Midsummer festivities today,” he pointed out. Aziraphale was certain that Prince Rastislav wouldn’t be willing to be pulled away from that to deal with this. The man did like a party.

“Pagan rites,” Methodius said, with heavy disapproval.

“Prince Rastislav insists that they are merely a, a secular celebration,” Aziraphale said gently. 

“He won’t listen to us while he’s there, in any case, brother,” Constantine said. Constantine was a little less liable than Methodius to get carried away with his own rhetoric.

“Tomorrow, then,” Methodius said. “Tomorrow, we must challenge this demon. Will you help us, Brother Aziraphale? For surely none can challenge your sanctity.”

“Um,” Aziraphale said. “Certainly, brothers. Tomorrow. Of course.”

* * *

Crowley had been hearing the revelry down in the main courtyard for a couple of hours before Aziraphale arrived at the garden, late in the afternoon. A wave of affection rolled over him as he saw the angel’s bright blond hair, caught by the sun, as Aziraphale made his way past the formal flower-beds to where Crowley lounged in their favourite arbour. 

“Aziraphale! I’ve a good bottle for tonight.” 

They’d been cracking into the wine together most evenings of late. Crowley figured that Rastislav was hardly likely to miss it – wasn’t like he bothered counting the bottles in and out himself – and anyway, thieving was a perfectly legitimate demonic wile. He wasn’t sure whether Aziraphale knew where the stuff was coming from, or whether he was acting on the best-not-to-ask principle. 

“Oh, thank you, Crowley dear, but…” Aziraphale looked worried. 

“Problem?” 

“I’m afraid...oh dear. Constantine and Methodius, I’m afraid they, they saw your eyes. And your feet.”

“Oh shit,” Crowley said, with feeling. He’d been so careful, too. Well. Maybe less so, as time had been going on and he’d felt more relaxed here. “Already on their way up with the flaming torches and all that?”

“Tomorrow,” Aziraphale said, gloomily. “Once they’ve spoken to Prince Rastislav. He’s busy today, of course.” He sighed. “I suppose you should get going.”

“I suppose I should,” Crowley agreed. “Oh well.” He’d delayed rather longer than he liked should have, anyway. Because he liked this garden. Because he’d been enjoying spending time with Aziraphale. He blessed himself under his breath.

Aziraphale’s shoulders were drooping. “Well then,” he said, with attempted good cheer. “I’m sure we’ll see each other again sometime. Do look after yourself.”

If Crowley had any sense at all, he’d be leaving the castle right now, while everyone was busy with the drinking and not-pagan-honest rituals. Otherwise he was at risk of having to expend a great many miracles to get himself out of the piles of shit he was headed towards. Humans did _not_ like demons, once they spotted them. He’d been through this too often before. 

But there was Aziraphale, looking sad, and there was a bottle of wine, and Aziraphale had said ‘tomorrow’...

“Eh,” he said, with a shrug. “We can have a drink first, right, angel? You said they won’t be up until tomorrow. Rastislav’s not the type to like having his party interrupted by a religious showdown.”

“Well, quite. Tomorrow morning.”

“Tomorrow afternoon,” Crowley corrected him. “You ever seen old Raz with a hangover? There you go. Plenty of time for that drink.”

It was foolish; but then again, Crowley was a demon. Risks and bad decisions were his stock in trade, weren’t they? Granted, the risks and bad decisions weren’t supposed to involve any angels, but then he’d been taking that particular risk for a good long time now, so...

Well. Aziraphale was smiling again, and that was always nice. Crowley uncorked the bottle, and sloshed wine into both goblets. Aziraphale hesitated for a fractional moment, then he took one, and tipped it towards Crowley in a toast. 

There. A couple of hours wouldn’t hurt. 

“I probably shouldn’t approve,” Aziraphale said, a little later, gesturing with his goblet.

“Approve of what?” Crowley was lying on the little piece of chamomile turf, staring up at the stars as they emerged in the gloaming.

“Midsummer. I’m fairly certain it’s quite pagan. Methodius definitely thought so.”

“Ah, I’m sure your lot’ll find a way to co-opt it, sooner or later – but why begrudge them a bit of fun? Such short lives they’ve all got. Might as well enjoy it all once in a while.”

“Oh, dear, it’s true, they do. Dear Constantine is looking very peaky these days. Very peaky indeed, poor chap.”

“Can’t you just…” Crowley waggled his fingers. 

“No,” Aziraphale said, a little sadly. “No. I mean. One can’t, can one?”

“Not for long, no,” Crowley agreed, and cast around for a change of subject. “Hey, look. Angel. Come and look up here.”

Aziraphale, fussing slightly about his robes, lowered himself to lie next to Crowley. “Look where?”

Crowley pointed up into the sky. “Up there. Keep looking, let your eyes adjust.” Aziraphale’s eyes were, he knew, more human than his. “That’s a nebula, that is.”

“Oh, it is beautiful, isn’t it?” Aziraphale sighed. “Do you remember when they were made? Not that I, personally…”

“I did,” Crowley said, then immediately blessed himself for admitting it. 

“You? Really?” Next to him, he could sense Aziraphale turning onto his side to look at him. “Well. I mean. You did a lovely job.” 

Crowley kept staring upwards. His eyes blurred, just a little. 

“More wine?” Aziraphale offered. 

Crowley held his goblet out to the side for Aziraphale to top it up, then, after a moment, looked sideways at Aziraphale. The way Aziraphale was looking at him made his breath catch. 

“They’re lovely,” Aziraphale said, softly. “And this garden is such a wonderful place to see them.”

The two of them were very close together now. Crowley felt safe here, surrounded by his flowers, and Aziraphale was looking at him so intently…He took a breath, and then, before he knew it, he’d moved into the couple of inches that separated him from Aziraphale, and their lips met.

He had just enough time to panic about what a completely terrible idea this was, before Aziraphale exhaled into his mouth, sounding almost relieved, and then Aziraphale’s tongue was swiping across Crowley’s lower lip, and they were, they were really kissing. 

The whole business wasn’t entirely new to Crowley; he didn’t bother very often, but there’d been the occasional carnal temptation, and a handful of encounters over the centuries just for fun. He had never been sure about Aziraphale, but from the way he was kissing, Crowley was prepared to bet that he hadn’t been entirely abstemious either. No real surprise, given the way he took to wine and food and those oil massages you used to get in Roman baths. Right now, Aziraphale was nibbling at his lower lip, and Crowley found himself groaning at the back of his throat and plunging his tongue into Aziraphale’s mouth. 

They were closer together than they had been, although Crowley didn’t entirely remember moving, and Aziraphale was nudging one leg in between Crowley’s. An excellent idea. Crowley hooked a leg over Aziraphale’s hips, felt Aziraphale’s thigh nudge at his cock, and pushed into the pressure, sparks of sensation lighting their way up his spine. Aziraphale made a satisfied noise, and his arm went around Crowley’s back, tugging them more firmly together. As Aziraphale shifted, Crowley could feel the hardness of his cock, too, through Aziraphale’s robes and his own hose, pushing into the crease of Crowley’s hip, and the evidence of Aziraphale’s desire sent another tingling bolt through him. Desperate for more touch, Crowley slid his hand in under the neckline of Aziraphale’s robes. The skin across the top of Aziraphale’s spine was soft and smooth under his hand, and once he’d started, he couldn’t stop touching. 

They stayed like that for a while, kissing feverishly and rutting into each other. Crowley was lost in the smell and taste and feel of Aziraphale, shifting his weight so that he could snake one hand into Aziraphale’s blond curls, just as soft around his fingers as he’d always imagined they would be, while he stroked across Aziraphale’s shoulder-blades with the other. When he dug his nails in, just a little, Aziraphale moaned into his mouth and arched into him, hips moving restlessly, and Crowley’s whole body tingled with arousal.

Then Aziraphale pulled back from the kiss, just an inch or so, and for a horrible moment Crowley thought he’d done something wrong.

“May I suck you?” Aziraphale asked, before nibbling at Crowley’s lower lip, and Crowley blessed himself under his breath and held onto his willpower with his fingernails. 

“Fuck, angel. Yes. I mean, if you, if you want to…”

Aziraphale didn’t bother replying, just gave Crowley a beatific smile, kissed him lightly again while he fumbled at the top of Crowley’s hose, and then before Crowley could think much more about it, Aziraphale was wriggling down his body, and Crowley’s cock was in Aziraphale’s hot, wet mouth.

Crowley looked down – he had to see this, he really did – and very nearly came on the spot. His cock disappearing into Aziraphale’s mouth, that was hot enough. But Aziraphale’s expression, concentration and deep all-encompassing pleasure all at once, the same way he looked when tipping an oyster into his mouth or licking pie juice off his fingers, was incandescent. Crowley would be lying if he claimed he’d never thought about this, often whilst watching Aziraphale licking his fingers, but it turned out that his imagination wasn’t a patch on the real thing. 

He shut his eyes and slid his fingers back into Aziraphale’s hair. Aziraphale gave a pleased hum, and pulled back a little, sliding almost off the top of Crowley’s cock, before licking around the head until Crowley whined, and then sliding right back down again until his nose was pressed up against Crowley’s belly. It felt incredible, overwhelming. Pleasure coiled in Crowley’s belly, and he couldn’t stop his hips from bucking. Aziraphale didn’t seem to mind, just hummed and pressed his tongue against the underside of Crowley’s cock. It only took a couple more of those long slow slides before Crowley was crying out and coming into Aziraphale’s mouth. 

Aziraphale, looking very smug, came back up to kiss Crowley. His mouth had the astringent taste of Crowley’s come. Dazed, Crowley fumbled his hand down to where Aziraphale’s cock was still hard against him. 

“Uh, would you like, I can…” he muttered somewhat incoherently into Aziraphale’s mouth, as his hand found the gorgeous velvet warmth of Aziraphale’s cock, and his thumb stroked over the moisture gathering at the tip. 

“Just, just that, what you’re doing,” Aziraphale said, breath hitching, and thrust into Crowley’s hand.

Crowley applied himself to discovering that, for example, a certain twist of the wrist worked just as well on Aziraphale as it did when he had his hand on his own cock. He revelled in Aziraphale’s panting moans into his mouth. Aziraphale was beautiful like this, eyes shut and fingers digging into Crowley’s shoulders; and he, Crowley was doing this to Aziraphale, making him shudder, making him gasp. A warm heat rose through Crowley’s chest, and he bit gently at Aziraphale’s lip and swallowed up the noise Aziraphale made in response. It seemed scarcely any time – too fast, Crowley’s hind-brain growled, more – before Aziraphale was crying out and coming into his hand. 

They lay there, both breathing hard, on the grass for a while without speaking. Crowley, after a moment, performed a quick miracle to tidy the both of them up.

“Well,” Aziraphale said, eventually. 

“Yep,” Crowley replied, unable to think of anything else. “Well. It is midsummer.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “A little more wine, perhaps?” 

He sat up, and slugged a healthy gulp out of his own goblet. Crowley sat up too, and sneaked a sideways glance at the angel while he was pouring more wine. 

“I suppose,” Aziraphale said, then fell silent.

“You suppose what?” Crowley prompted, eventually.

“I suppose you’ll be off tomorrow. Like you said.”

“Yeah.” Crowley drank some more wine and tried not to feel too gloomy. It could be worse. He might not have found out until he was already in the middle of the whole begone-foul-fiend thing, which was invariably unpleasant at best and discorporating at worst. 

Were they going to talk about what just happened? All signs pointed to No, which was...probably for the best. 

“I should...be getting along,” he said, awkwardly, and drained his wine. “Pack up. You know.” 

“Yes,” Aziraphale agreed. “I...It’s been a lovely evening, Crowley.”

For a moment, their eyes met, and Crowley felt the jolt of it straight down his spine, before they both looked away again, and Aziraphale began to get to his feet. Without really thinking about it, Crowley got up to leave as well. On their way out of the garden, Aziraphale stopped to admire the patch of carnations near the entrance. Crowley, completely failing to think through what he was doing, bent and picked one. 

“Here.” 

Aziraphale’s eyes widened, far more than was warranted by the offer of a single flower. Wasn’t like there weren’t loads of them, after all, all blooming away merrily in sheer terror of Crowley. Aziraphale took it, carefully, from Crowley’s hand. He didn’t say anything, just smiled softly at Crowley, before he turned and left the garden. 

It wasn’t until he was halfway to the next city that Crowley remembered the symbolism of carnations. Love. 

* * *

The next morning, the carnation, lying on his windowsill, was the first thing that Aziraphale saw when he woke up.

Crowley would be gone already, he was certain. And it was probably for the best, because however much Aziraphale might think that there was nothing all that wrong with the pleasures of the flesh, indulging in them with his hereditary enemy, remembering those beautiful eyes fluttering shut in pleasure, was...well…

Well. Anyway. 

He went up to the garden anyway, just in case; and ran into Constantine and Methodius. Methodius was looking very irritable. 

“No sign of that gardener?” Methodius demanded.

“Oh. Well. Not that I’ve seen,” Aziraphale said, and tried very hard not to look at the piece of grass they’d lain on the night before. 

“Prince Rastislav seemed to think that he’d been called away in the middle of the night,” Constantine said. 

“Oh dear. Oh well. I suppose not much we can do about it, then, is there?” Aziraphale said, feeling simultaneously relieved that Crowley had disappeared in plenty of time, and sorry not to be seeing him again. 

Underneath it all was a tiny hidden worry, that Crowley...surely he was still well, wasn’t he? Surely Aziraphale would have known if something had happened because of what they did? Although it was Aziraphale who was the one who was likely to get into trouble about it, not Crowley. 

Methodius was still irritable, but Constantine looked almost as relieved as Aziraphale was. “Come, brother,” he said, tugging at Methodius’ sleeve. “Let us return to the scriptorium.”

Later that day, Aziraphale managed to speak to Prince Rastislav.

“Ah yes, Crowley. Saw him last night, I think,” Prince Rastislav said, cheerfully. “All a bit blurry, I admit. Said he’d been called away. He was strange, that one. Very helpful back when I was fighting, but to spend all that time with plants? A little peculiar. There you go, takes all sorts, I suppose. Wine?”

Well. That was that, Aziraphale supposed. 

He still spent time in the garden, but it wasn’t quite the same without Crowley. Then dear Constantine and Methodius got into some wrangle with the East Francians, and the alphabet was well in place now, and one wasn’t supposed to stay too long in one place anyway…

The next time he met Crowley, neither of them mentioned it; but then, they did have a very decent lunch, and afterwards there was the first ever attempt at the Arrangement, when Crowley very helpfully did a blessing for Aziraphale and saved him having to go to some terribly dreary Mediterranean city. Perhaps it was for the best, just to let it sink into the past. 

And he only very occasionally looked at the flower he’d dried, pressed between the pages of a codex written in Glagolitic. 

* * *

_London, 2020_

Crowley swung into the bookshop, and the bell tinkled as the door closed behind him. It was spring again. He liked spring. 

Aziraphale wasn’t in the front of the bookshop, and he wasn’t hiding in the stacks, or in the back room where they usually hung out. Crowley eventually ran him to ground in his office, where he was looking at some vast tome or other. Crowley generally preferred not to admit to it, but it was impossible to spend quite this much time hanging out with Aziraphale without getting to know a bit about books, and it was pretty obvious that this one was of the ‘very very old and valuable’ variety. And – Crowley squinted at it – it was in Cyrillic.

No. No it wasn’t. It was in Glagolitic. 

Crowley swallowed. He’d never known, for sure, whether Aziraphale remembered that. They’d both had a fair few glasses of wine. And when they’d met again, Aziraphale hadn’t said anything, and he hadn’t said anything either, and…

Well. It had all worked out in the end. And what was a few hundred years, really, between friends? 

Aziraphale looked up. “Ah, Crowley.” He smiled, and came around the table to give Crowley a gentle kiss of greeting. Crowley still wasn’t used to that. He felt a blush flare across his cheeks and hoped Aziraphale hadn’t noticed. 

“What’ve you got there?” Crowley asked, then slightly wished he hadn’t. But honestly, now, surely, they could…

Aziraphale picked something up from between the pages. “A carnation,” he said. “It really shouldn’t have survived this long, but I couldn’t…” He stopped. 

Crowley swallowed. His throat felt thick. “You...kept it? I didn’t even know if...” He, too, stopped.

“If I remembered? Yes, well. I thought maybe you didn’t either, but…” He put the dried flower back down again, and took Crowley’s hands. “Of course I remembered, darling. I just wish I’d had the nerve to say as much, when we saw each other again.”

“You’re not the one who skited off out of the country,” Crowley muttered. 

“Well, you did have to,” Aziraphale said. “I went to look for you the next morning, just in case, but I’m honestly not sure what I’d have said, even if you had still been there. Other than ‘go away right now before Methodius catches you’.” He sighed, the corners of his mouth turning down a little. “Probably I’d have done very much what I did when we met in Vienna, and pretended it never happened. But I was glad it did, even then, even when I didn’t want to admit it to myself. And I’m glad now. But I’m even more glad that this time we get to do it all properly.”

From out of a pocket, like one of his terrible conjuring tricks, he produced a single red carnation. “So perhaps...is it my turn, now, to give you something?”

Crowley took the flower, put it down on the desk, and put his arms around Aziraphale. “You can give me a lot of things, angel,” he said into Aziraphale’s ear. “Anything you like. Perhaps let’s start with shutting the shop for the afternoon?” 

The bookshop might not be a garden, but it would do.

**Author's Note:**

>   * yes fine the title quote is from some 700+ years later, but as Crowley says, what’s a few hundred years, really, between friends?
>   * Constantine and Methodius got themselves sainted a few years later, as Sts Cyril and Methodius.
>   * Thanks as ever to the splendid [LauraShapiro](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurashapiro) for beta, and to the [Good Omens Holiday Exchange](https://go-exchange.dreamwidth.org/) moderators! (Come join in next year :) ) 
> 



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